Blistered leaves were flutteringon
updrafts of warm air,like summertimeon the seventeenth of
January;charred faces flitting past their mothersdressed in
mourning by attendant flameskneeling so subservientin the
undergrowth.

Your bones gleamed
defiant,crumbling at the cornersof a misdemeanor
contractasking you to stand againstimpossibility,as a
paper wall between the tonguesof smoldering loversbiting at
each other's throats.

Blink a river of sorrowfrom
red-rimmed, smoky eyes,blink unstated promises awaylike stray
bullets, right on target;I wish we'd had a moment longerbefore
lit matches singed our fingertips,a second split in two,on
half for each of us to speakreversed hellos.

But we dropped our burning
splintersto devastate a mountainside,so some part of the
worldwould remember usin all our doubtful
mediocrity,belligerent conformityfiling down jagged edgesto
align us to pagan standards.

And we're just ash now.

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